Is Craft Enough?
René Magritte's The Human Condition
Shya Scanlon started a nice discussion over at Big Other about writers obsessing over craft to the neglect of other issues: “I hear fiction authors talk far more about, say, the structure of metaphor, than about the moral or existential predicament of their characters, and sometimes it gets depressing to hear all these fastidious little creatures go on about their backstage pulleys and gears as though the play itself were of secondary importance”
He’s responding to a quote from Elif Batuman, author of the new book The Possessed, who writes: “‘What did craft ever try to say about the world, the human condition, or the search for meaning? All it had were its negative dictates: ‘Show, don’t tell’; ‘Murder your darlings’; ‘Omit needless words.’ As if writing were a matter of overcoming bad habits — of omitting needless words.’”
I think this is an interesting conversation because it’s so difficult, at least for me, to name that Other that meets craft in the writing process. I’ve certainly read stories that I would describe as cold, that didn’t transcend their form. But I’m also nervous about spilling into Ted Genoways’ territory. Different written works craft different Others, reach for the reader differently: with a character, with a story, with language, with ideas.
But some work I can only describe as perceptive. It’s the description of a mood, character or decision that resonates for me, that gives order to my own experience. Five or so years ago, these are the lines I read for, the ones I always underlined. A couple of maybe embarrassing examples:
“A fluid choice, the choice of fantasy, is poured out on the ground and instantly hardens; it has taken its undeniable shape.” –The Love of a Good Woman
“We were all brought up to want things and maybe the world isn’t big enough to take all that wanting.” – Rabbit Redux
“I could always see myself as though from the outside, doing the things I was told to do. And that was enough never to do them well or fully.” – The Sportswriter
Certainly these don’t resonate with me the way they did years ago. But I’m appreciative of work that is perceptive, and occasionally I envy it. I’ve found I cannot directly pursue being perceptive in my own work. Usually it reduces the piece to a lesson. The perceptive work I’ve loved offers much more, in terms of character and plots, and these observations are passing.
Also, you cannot teach perception. It seems to be something one acquires indirectly. One of my favorite Jessa Crispin reviews, over at The Smart Set, is of Jeff Vandermeer’s Booklife:
There are people in this strange little world of ours who have romantic notions about being a writer, and that, to them, is much more important than actually writing. This is the order in which people like that think. “How do I get a book deal” comes before “How do I become someone who has something to say?”
In the comment thread on Shya’s post, Greg Gerke writes, “What one stands for seems to come out in one’s writing, no matter if you know it is there or not, other people will see it.” That seems true—maybe intimidating.
What are some of your favorite observations in poetry or prose? Ever found yourself wondering where a writer’s great observation came from or wishing for your own? Have you experienced those pieces that are well-crafted and not much more?
I hate the word “craft.” I kind of hate it when people talk about “craft.” More than perception, I’m interested in the emotion of the piece, what feelings it evokes or struggles with, and how that then leads to greater mystery and meaning. And I’m interested in the dramatic movement, too — the shit that happens that gives rise to the “feelings” and shapes the story,characters, mystery, and meaning.
In Mystery and Manners, Flannery O’Connor writes that “The type of mind that can understand good fiction is not necessarily the educated mind, but it is at all times the kind of mind that is wiling to have its sense of mystery deepened by contact with reality, and its sense of reality deepened by contact with mystery.” She goes on to write that “A story is good when you continue to see more and more in it, and when it continues to escape you.” Not a lot of craft notes here. “The peculiar problem of the short story writer,” she writes, “is how to make the action he describes reveal as much of the mystery of existence as possible.”
That seems true to me. Sometimes craft talk feels like grammar talk — something that occurs long after the thing is done–a way to kind of talk about the form of a thing long after the mystery of its forming has occurred. Not that I don’t have plenty of little rules for myself that are useful–and sometimes not useful. But I want to keep the larger mysteries in mind, too, even when I’m becoming aware of what the piece might be “about.” I don’t want those larger mysteries to get buried under my thinking about craft, or lost as I worry the prose to death (which I find myself doing too frequently.)
I’m not saying there’s no value in thinking about craft. But compared to the bigger, harder stuff–like seeing and hearing and trying to transform what you see and hear into a shape that feels complete–craft concerns, while no doubt important and useful, just feel less primary. And sometimes, maybe often, they just feel irrelevant. No amount of craft consideration will resuscitate a piece that doesn’t breathe.
Craft is easier to talk about because it easier to pursue refining your craft. What can a writer do if the feelings in their pieces fall flat or their mysteries are too simple?
I think there are two reasons Ginsberg’s “Howl” succeeds. There is that dark emotional drive that rapes innocence and god I love that poem. But there is also this nervous tick he developed through his craft where he has to keep looking over his shoulder to make sure he hasn’t strayed too far from Whitman, and I love that.
Craft seems to be where art has its understanding or makes its connection with history. I thinking building upon and playing with that connection can definitely add to the emotional core of the piece as it did for me in “Howl.”
What do you mean by building upon and playing with that connection?
Well, an example:
When we look at “Song of Myself” we see Whitman setting up the rhythm by using the same phrasing to start his lines…turning his poem into a sort of litany. Ginsberg recreates this with “Who…” so he is acknowledging this craft technique but is also aware of the biblical tone’s impact on a poem because he has seen how history has dealt with it in Whitman’s verse. So Ginsberg plays with this craft and builds upon it by coupling it with a dark driving voice and more gritty language and by breaking it in places all in respect and in acknowledgment to the history of this craft.
Nice. I think I was confused if you were doing a building & playing with the piece to access its core, or if Ginsberg was. You’re absolutely right, I think the best work has a core and a craft and the two inform each other, give birth to each other.
I also think its really hard to articulate that core sometimes and sometimes those conversations end up being about what’s true or what’s real, and that’s a strange place to end up in.
Sidenote: Your last couple comments (the mystery post included) have made me want to make time for Whitman, who I promised myself I’d read cover to cover a couple of years ago and failed.
Yes. Agreed. My point is that although there is no amount of craft consideration that can “resuscitate a piece that doesn’t breath” there is also no amount of emotional heaving that can relay it self effectively without craft consideration. In fact, for argument sake, I would say it is craft (the points where that connection to history is made)that punches the whole in the emotional fabric of a piece that allows it to breath.
I’m tired of having to say it, but, yes, Jessa’s absolutely right. And Booklife supports that position. Indeed, I quote Carol Bly’s The Passionate, Accurate Story, in which she makes a similar argument.
Cheers,
JeffV
Thanks, Jeff. Your interview with Jessa is great too: http://booklifenow.com/2010/02/happiness-as-a-by-product-an-interview-with-jessa-crispin-founder-of-bookslut/
For years, I’ve thought about this passage from Roth’s American Pastoral, too long to reprint here but a great example of the telling-not-showing you’re supposed to avoid.
Also Amy Hempel: “You have to believe that something will work. I don’t, but you have got to.”
And I’ve staked my own claim on part of Rabbit Redux:
“There is that scent in the air, of going back to school, of beginning again and reconfirming the order that exists. He wants to feel good, he always used to feel good at every turning of the year, every vacation or end of vacation, every new sheet on the calendar: but his adult life has proved to have no seasons, only changes of weather, and the older he gets, the less weather interests him.”
Another Hempel: “I had my own bed. I slept in it alone, except for those times when we needed—not sex—but sex was how we got there.”
Is that from the story about the dead veterinarian and his wife? I can’t remember.
I love those Hempel lines. They are much preciser than any image or showing could be, I think.
They are from “Nashville Gone to Ashes.” And yes, much.